


Be Okay

by areyouokaypanda



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Established Relationship, In Medias Res, M/M, bard magic gone wild(e)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:47:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26200627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/areyouokaypanda/pseuds/areyouokaypanda
Summary: Some he can still see fleeing the battlefield, running as fast as their legs can carry them without a thought spared for what's behind them except toget away from it. And in the middle of everything?Is Wilde.
Relationships: Grizzop drik Acht Amsterdam/Oscar Wilde
Comments: 26
Kudos: 53





	Be Okay

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so... I don't typically count myself as a writer, but sometimes things happen on discord and you chatfic for 2000 words without really meaning to, so... here.
> 
> No beta, no context, no adherence to Pathfinder rules. _We die like champions_.

Well _that_ hurt.  
  
He didn’t mean to cry out like that, abrupt and rasping, but things happen when someone three times your size hits you that hard. The big guy must think that cry means he’s no longer a threat, the way he’s looming. It’s a mistake, and one he’ll never get the chance to make again. Grizzop doesn’t even bother raising his bow, the sharp arrow in his hand the only tool he needs as he launches himself off the ground and toward the bloke's throat.   
  
His feet are on solid earth again before the big man collapses, and it’s a real effort not to join him on the ground. Armor had saved him from an additional open wound, but something in his chest isn’t sitting quite right, a sharp pain thumping through his left side to join the chorus of other injuries scattered over his person.  
  
But the pain doesn’t matter if the fight isn’t over. Adrenaline dulls the complaints from his body enough that Grizzop can keep his feet, but when he finally manages to wipe enough blood from his eyes to get a look at his surroundings? He barely recognizes the battlefield.  
  
There are still enemies, but none of them are on their feet anymore. Some of them are dead, eyes wide and faces frozen in horror. Some still live, but only react to Grizzop moving past them by cringing away, hands clasped over their ears and eyes. Some he can still see fleeing the battlefield, running as fast as their legs can carry them without a thought spared for what's behind them except to _get away from it_. And in the middle of everything?   
  
Is Wilde.  
  
The space around Wilde is clear of blokes for several feet, as if some small explosion knocked every enemy back, but there’s no evidence of force or fire. It’s just Wilde in the center, feet planting him as solid as a tree. His back is to Grizzop so he can’t see the bard’s face, but he can see his fingers curled and rigid. Can see the way his shoulders are drawn back, neck extended and head held high, his whole body an instrument poised for play, and he’s _singing.  
  
_Grizzop has heard Wilde sing before, usually just in the quick snatches required for spellcasting, but sometimes something softer. Aimless, meandering tunes too early in the morning, or quiet whispers over Grizzop’s head late at night, but this… it doesn’t seem like the sort of sound a human throat ought to be able to make. Not inhuman, exactly, but it’s too many tones at once, too loud, and somehow just _too much_ . It’s Wilde, but at the same time, _it is not_.  
  
Grizzop can see the rest of the party opposite Wilde, battle-worn and clustered together, eyes locked on the bard before them. They hold strong for the most part, but Grizzop can see them flinching at high notes and shifts in tone. He can feel _himself_ flinch too, body trembling involuntarily as the wind around him shifts and flashes. It takes a few moments for him to move beyond simply experiencing the overwhelming sense of wrong swirling around them and instead clock the actual cause.  
  
Wilde is a bard. _An illusionist_ , and a master among those who would call themselves his peer. It's something grizzop has always had a practical understanding of. He gets the way illusions can be used effectively on the battlefield or in real life. He might tease Wilde over his chosen focus now and then, but he's seen the bard use his illusions to great enough effect that he'd never truly discount them.   
  
He'll never tease like that again.   
  
Phantom images tear across the battlefield, _through_ those unlucky enough to still be on it, and Grizzop knows it's only luck and force of will keeping him and his friends on their feet, seeing only flashes of the true horror the wind is carrying. This magic is not directed, not carefully woven like he knows Wilde is capable of doing. This is sheer _power_ , sound carrying nightmares in every direction heedless of anyone or anything in the way.  
  
Grizzop isn't sure how long this has been going on. Can't be sure of how long they've all just stood there and watched Wilde screaming catastrophe. He doesn't even understand _why_ . The fight hadn't been easy, but they weren't losing. There's no reason for this (wouldn't have been even if Grizzop had _known_ Wilde was capable of this), but however long and whatever the reason, _it has to stop_.  
  
As always, where the others hesitate, Grizzop _moves_ , ears held flat against his skull and eyes focused low toward the ground as he makes his way toward Wilde. The wind alone isn't strong enough to slow his advance, but the sounds around him make every step a chore. He keeps his head enough to hold the magic infusing the air at bay, mind focused, grounded in the very real urgency brought on by the emotions he can now hear in Wilde's voice. There's rage there, and sorrow, and something else he can't quite recognize as notes start to waver, a sign of a very human throat straining under supernatural pressure.  
  
Time still seems to be moving wrong when Wilde's boots finally enter Grizzop's line of sight, and he risks looking up to get his bearings. The rest of the party hasn't moved, but they seem to have gathered themselves, eyes now focused on Grizzop with obvious hope and worry. He can see they're at the ready, unsure of just how to help, but ready to try. They're always ready to try. It's reassuring, at least, and with that backing Grizzop finally pulls himself around to Wilde's front and looks all the way up to take him in.  
  
The bard isn't hurt. Not seriously, anyway. Nothing like wounds Grizzop knows he's carrying himself right now, though the sharp throb of them is still dulled by adrenaline, leaving them easy to ignore. A few scrapes and bruises dot Wilde's arms and face, and once fine clothing is dusty and torn. Nothing a lay on hands and a shower won't set right, but the relief that comes with that knowledge quickly drains away when Grizzop's eyes reach Wilde's face.   
  
His eyes are closed, but he's crying, a stream of tears making tracks through dust and splatters of blood that Grizzop is almost entirely certain do not belong to him. His mouth is open, moving to form shapes that don't actually seem to fit the sounds coming from it, and every part of him is rigid, set in place like stone but for the heaving of his chest and the shifting of his lips as he projects death and destruction through the air around them.  
  
Another few moments pass by, wasted as Grizzop simply waits, perhaps hoping that the bard will snap out of whatever trance he's locked himself into. Perhaps simply unsure of what to do now that he's confronted by this danger wearing the face of a friend (a lover) but those sounds waver and crack once more and Grizzop steels himself. _This has to stop_.   
  
"Oi! Wilde!" Grizzop reaches up as high as he can, small fingers winding into the fabric of Wilde's shirt so he can give the bard an aggressive jerk, only to jerk back himself as the wind picks up sharply, the pitch of the sounds coming from Wilde rising to something painful and ringing. Grizzop manages to stop his instinctive retreat after only a single step backward, but only just, hands clapped over his ears and teeth grit against the vibrations trying to turn his mind and body into fuzz. He cannot hear if the others are reacting similarly behind him, can't think beyond _painpainloudstop_ , and it's another agonizing eternity before Wilde's voice cracks again, that brief instant like a breath of fresh air to a drowning man. It's too short, but it's just enough to let another thought in.   
  
_Screw this.  
  
_And Grizzop swings as hard as he can, burying one small fist in Wilde's stomach.  
  
The sound cuts off immediately, replaced only by a brief wheeze and a thump as Wilde crumples to the ground. Or at least those are the sounds Grizzop knows should logically follow what's just happened, even if he can't make them out. The supernatural agony in his _everything_ receded the moment Wilde's air was cut off, leaving Grizzop with only the phantoms of remembered pain and an insistent ringing he can only hope is temporary. A few moments pass and the air remains still, and Grizzop collects himself as best he can, shaking the memory of those awful noises from his ears and willing his body to stop trembling and start moving because _they're not done yet_. Wilde is on his knees, both arms curled around his middle and his forehead pressed to the dirt as he struggles to draw breath.   
  
"You're not gonna catch your breath like that, idiot," Grizzop says, his own voice still muted as his hearing returns, and he uses both hands to tip Wilde over. The bard offers no resistance, rolling onto his side and then his back at Grizzop's insistence, uncurling as small hands manipulate his arms, neck, and head to let him draw short, raspy breaths.  
  
His eyes are still closed, but his expression has changed. The rage and magical rigidity is gone, replaced by very human pain and confusion. Grizzop has never been happy to see Wilde in pain (okay, maybe just that one time), but now it's a relief. Grizzop lets him breath for a few moments, watching carefully as each breath comes just a little easier and his own hearing returns to something resembling normal. Wilde doesn't seem entirely aware of his surroundings, but instinctively knows what to do now that he's no longer in the fetal position, taking deep breaths that push his stomach out before sucking it back in as he exhales.   
  
It makes sense. A guy like him has probably taken a few fists to the gut over his lifetime.   
  
Once Wilde's breathing has evened out and some of the pain has left his expression, Grizzop drops into a careful crouch beside him and reaches out, tapping almost gently at Wilde's cheek with one hand.   
  
"So you wanna tell me what that was about?"   
  
Wilde's eyes fly open at the sound of Grizzop's voice, discomfort gone and replaced with something frantic (something dreadfully hopeful) as he looks the goblin up and down, gaze flicking from armor to injury to the irritated expression on his face and-   
  
Grizzop nearly falls backward as Wilde sits up in a rush. Definitely would have fallen were it not for two long arms suddenly winding around him and pulling him close, the toes of his boots skidding through the dirt as the bard pulls him into his lap and against his chest. Wilde's breathing is strained again, coming fast and shuddering across Grizzop's scalp as he clings to the small body in his lap like it's the only thing in the world that matters.  
  
Shock holds Grizzop still long enough for him to register the small sounds Wilde is somehow still making. The bard's voice is _wrecked_ , predictably enough, and were his lips not pressed to grizzop's head there's no way he'd ever be able to hear them, let alone make out words.   
  
_"You're okay, you're okay, o-okay, okay..._ "  
  
Those small, croaking words keep Grizzop in place a little longer in spite of the agony radiating from his ribs. _He's_ okay? Was this about _him_? He's hurt, sure, but he's had far worse. Wilde has seen him through recovering from worse than this, so why-?  
  
Oh. _Oh_. The big bloke. Grizzop suddenly remembers the big guy, remembers taking that nasty hit, and then falling. He remembers a lot of blood running down his face and into his eyes and the looming shape of someone who thought he was winning, blocking out the sun itself before an arrow to the jugular turned the tables. And that's when the noise started.  
  
Wilde must've _seen_ . Saw him go down and heard him cry out and then- _oh, Artemis..._   
  
Grizzop finally kicks his mind and body into action again, wriggling in Wilde's grip to free his arms enough to move, leaning back and reaching up to settle a hand on each side of Wilde's face. For a moment the bard seems too far gone, too lost in sorrow and relief to follow Grizzop's physical directions, but a gentle "hey, look at me" finally loosens his grip enough to let their eyes meet.   
  
Wilde is still crying, sobs quieting into stuttering hiccups and rasping breaths. His red, puffy eyes and sluggishly bleeding nose should be off-putting, but Grizzop can't help but smile just a little at the sight. _This stupid, stupid man._   
  
Grizzop huffs out a breath that on any other day might signal irritation, grimacing as he shifts just the wrong way and is reminded of the injuries that scared Wilde to destruction only minutes ago, but he keeps his place in the bard's arms and in his gaze, sliding small hands into those windblown curls and pressing their foreheads together gently.   
  
"I'm okay."

**Author's Note:**

> And then Sasha whistles from behind them and Grizzop flips her off over Wilde's shoulder.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Be Okay [podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27215362) by [KD reads (KDHeart)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KDHeart/pseuds/KD%20reads)




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